


Watch-fire Musings

by HazelnutShippingCo



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Banter, M/M, Teasing, playing with Túrin's soft messy hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelnutShippingCo/pseuds/HazelnutShippingCo
Summary: A bit of late night banter after the rest of the camp has gone to sleep.





	

“Is it not difficult to keep watch from that position?” Beleg inquired, laying a hand atop Túrin’s head. The young man lay stretched out upon the ground, his head resting on Beleg’s thigh as the elf sat cross-legged beside him.

“You keep watch,” came the mumbled response from beneath dark, tangling curls. “It is not as though you sleep anyway, so you may as well.”

“I sleep,” Beleg replied patiently with a fact that Túrin already knew, but seemed to be ignoring (and not for the first time). “Though, perhaps not as much as your kind.”

“It is not for lack of trying to do otherwise.” Túrin retorted, appearing to take this simple fact of life as a personal insult.

“No,” Beleg admitted. “But the results of those attempts were less than favorable.” He could not help but grimace at recalling previous instances of Túrin’s self-induced sleep deprivation. “Sleep then, if you are weary. I will keep the watch.”

Túrin responded with a nonverbal sound that Beleg generally interpreted as assent, though he made no indication of the intention to move inside to his bedroll, where the rest of their band already lay sleeping. Beleg’s hand still lay atop Túrin‘s head.  The unkempt locks were surprisingly soft against his skin. Or at least, Beleg thought, it seemed so to him, though it may be only a point of comparison, considering the state of his own callused hand. Still, it was pleasant, the way Túrin’s curls wrapped their way around his long fingers. Beleg moved his hand slowly through them, watching as the low light of the watch-fire caught dimly upon dark strands.

“Do you think me a dog, Beleg, that you pet me so?” Túrin asked quizzically. Beleg smirked at the question.

“Nay,” he answered back. “Indeed, young one, your temperament is more like to that of a cat than a dog. For a cat will obstinately follow its own course, unheeding of counsel,” he teased. Whilst a dog who has run away can still be recalled home, his mind added silently. “Regardless, would you have me cease?”

“Nay,” Túrin sighed. “Stroke on if you wish. It is pleasant enough.”

“A cat indeed.” Beleg laughed softly.

They fell silent then, as Beleg’s hand continued its motion, combing soothingly though Túrin’s hair. Little else stirred in these quiet hours, save for the intermittent crackling of the slowly dying fire.

“If I am a cat,” Túrin asked after a time, “then what does that make you, to have followed a wandering cat so far? A smitten tom perhaps?” Túrin chuckled softly at his own jest.

“Perhaps,” Beleg conceded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But hush now.” He gently ruffled the already messy hair. “You should be sleeping.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Túrin quipped back. “You’re more like a mother hen. Tell me, Beleg, what did you do before I came along? Who did you have to coddle all those long years? Maybe you used to tuck Mablung into bed at night.  Did you sing him lullabies?”

Beleg shook his head, willing himself not to laugh.  The minds of tired mortals wandered to strange places, it seemed.  “I’m not answering that,” he replied, not entirely succeeding in keeping the laugh from his voice.  “Now hush.”  He moved his hand down to gently cover Túrin’s mouth, as if that would cause him to speak no more.  “Sleep.”

But Túrin grasped Beleg’s wrist ere he could draw his hand back and pressed the palm again against his lips, kissing it. Releasing his grip, he turned his head to face up toward Beleg. The intensity of his gaze took the elf by surprise, though from his lips there came more playful banter.

“We could let someone else take the watch,” Túrin suggested. “Perhaps I would sleep more easily if you lay beside me.”  

Beleg could read clearly Túrin’s intention beneath this invitation. Tempting, he thought. Although then there would be three who lacked in sleep this night, he reasoned, instead of only one. And despite temptation, reason won out.

Beleg leaned down to press his lips against Túrin’s. He lingered there a moment, enjoying the feel of the soft motion between them.  So very tempting, his mind repeated.  But finally, he drew back. Túrin looked up at him with wondering eyes, and Beleg laid a gentle hand aside his face.  “Another night, perhaps,” he answered the unspoken question. “Now sleep.” These last two words he spoke firmly.

Túrin, frowning, turned his face again toward the watch-fire.  “Mother hen indeed,” he murmured, settling himself more comfortably against Beleg’s leg.  

Beleg smiled down fondly, returning his hand to its place atop Túrin’s head, his thumb stroking smoothly over dark curls.  “Sleep,” was his whispered response.

Before another hour had passed, Beleg felt Túrin’s body relax, heard his breathing slow and steady. Asleep at last.  Beleg sighed with an emotion he could almost call contentment.  The watch-fire burned low as he settled in to await the dawn.


End file.
